Bent Road (32 page)

Evie hops off the counter. “I want to come, too,” she says.

Someone definitely needs to tell Julianne’s mom that Grandma Reesa made these rolls, not Aunt Ruth.

 

T
he pan of rolls is still warm on Ruth’s lap when Arthur parks in front of the Robisons’ house. Everyone else in town would have paid their respects yesterday after the funeral, but the Scott family didn’t make it because they had a run-in with Ray. Ruth pulls on her mittens, cradles the pan with one hand and takes the frosting from Evie. Both Ruth and Arthur had decided that Mary Robison’s house wasn’t the place for Evie. She would be too much of a reminder. No sense stirring up more tears with Evie’s blond braids and blue eyes. Before crawling out of the truck, Ruth looks back at Arthur, thinking she should say something, but not certain what that should be. He is staring straight ahead, lost in some thought. He turns. His eyelids are heavy, as if he can’t quite hold them up. He looks tired, and suddenly so much older. He looks like Father.

“We’ll probably visit a bit,” Ruth says, sliding across the bench seat toward the door. “You two will be warm enough out here?”

He nods. “Go on and take your time. And watch the ice. Sidewalk’ll be slippery.”

Ruth holds tight to the truck’s doorframe, steps onto the newly shoveled sidewalks, and walks toward the Robisons’ house.

 

C
elia hangs up the telephone, sits at the kitchen table and lays both hands flat on the vinyl tablecloth. She presses each finger into the table, holding on for a moment. After one final deep breath, she calls out.

“Daniel.”

The house is silent.

“Daniel, come on out.”

Daniel’s bedroom door swings open and he steps into his threshold. His hair is matted on one side and his shirt is misbuttoned.

“Sorry if I woke you,” Celia says.

Daniel glances at the telephone and at Celia.

“Come have a seat. I have some news, Danny. Some sad news.”

 

R
uth’s shoulder isn’t so sore anymore but still she favors it by balancing the dish on one hip. Someone has shoveled the sidewalk for the Robisons this morning, probably one of the men from church. Surely they didn’t do it themselves. Even so, it’s icy in spots. Ruth shuffles her feet, taking small steps and, at the bottom of the stairs leading to the Robisons’ porch, she stares up at the black door. For a moment, she remembers being on the other side. A different house, a different day, a different death, but otherwise the same. Church ladies brought casseroles in porcelain dishes and biscuits wrapped in tinfoil. They tried to gather around Mother, to comfort her with hugs and gentle words, but Mother wouldn’t have it. She sat them all down, served them coffee and crumb cake. The shirts that Father and Arthur wore that day smelled of starch and the cigars that the men brought and smoked on the back porch. Orville Robison is a smoker. The sweet smell meets Ruth at the top of the stairs. She breathes it in, raises her hand and knocks.

 

C
elia pulls her hands off the vinyl tablecloth and lays them in her lap when Daniel walks from his bedroom into the kitchen. He has to duck now when he walks under the heavy beam that runs through the house.

“Have a seat,” she says, gesturing toward the chair opposite her.

As Daniel sits, quickly at first and more slowly when he looks into Celia’s face, the back door opens and Jonathon walks in. The sound of him coming home brings Elaine out of her room. They both walk into the kitchen and, like Daniel, they seem to feel that something is wrong. Celia motions to them and they both sit. She doesn’t look at Jonathon or Elaine, just at Daniel. She reaches across the table and takes his hands.

 

R
uth knocks, lightly because she doesn’t really want them to hear her. On the other side of the closed door, a set of footsteps approaches. The doorknob rattles. The door opens.

“Ruth,” Mary Robison says. “Lord in heaven. What brings you out in this cold?”

Ruth lifts her pan. “Mother made them. For you.”

“Her rolls?”

“Yes. She let them rise twice. Evie made extra icing. We’re all so sorry for your loss.”

“You’re cold out there?”

Ruth shakes her head because the cold doesn’t matter. “We’re all so very sorry,” Ruth says, raising the pan again so Mary Robison can see it. “They’re still warm,” she says, though the pan has gone cold. “Would you like them in the kitchen?”

“Yes,” Mary says. “Thank you.” Then she steps back, ushering Ruth inside.

 

M
ama’s fingers are cold. Usually they’re warm. Every other time, they’ve been warm. Daniel lets her hold his hands, but he doesn’t hold back, and he wonders how he knows. Even before she tells him. By the look in her eye, or the sound of the phone ringing late in the day, or the smell in the air. He knows. He looks at Jonathon and Elaine. They don’t understand. They don’t see it or hear it or smell it. But Daniel does.

“That was Gene Bucher on the phone,” Mama says.

Daniel nods. Yes, he already knew that.

“Ian has been ill, Daniel. Did you know? He’s always been, well, fragile.”

Mama thinks Daniel knows about Ian being sickly, but now she isn’t sure. Yes, he already knew that.

“Daniel,” Mama says, exchanging a glance with Jonathon and Elaine. “Ian didn’t wake up yesterday morning. They expected it would happen. Eventually. Maybe it was this cold. Maybe it was too much for him. But he didn’t wake up.”

Daniel nods. Ian was more blue. Almost by the day. And shrinking away. He never got to be a pusher or shoot pheasant. He never found Jack Mayer’s tracks or stared into the whites of his eyes. He said Aunt Eve died in the shed, bloody and murdered, and then he fell backward, off the cafeteria table, blood spilling down his chin and into the creases in his neck. Yes, Daniel already knew that.

 

“I
thought they’d find her sooner,” Mary Robison says.

After first laying a dish towel across the kitchen counter, Ruth sets down the rolls and puts the icing in the refrigerator. She is surprised to find it empty. When Eve died, Mother defrosted casseroles for weeks. She said not a single dish would go to waste. Waste was another invitation from the devil. Closing the refrigerator, Ruth steps to the sink, pushes open the curtains and raises the shade. She blinks at the late day light that spills into the room. Maybe folks weren’t bringing food because Julianne first disappeared so long ago. Maybe they thought Mary Robison had had time enough for grieving.

Walking into the living room, Ruth tries to smile for Mary and says, “Pardon? What have you lost?”

“I didn’t think . . .” Mary says. She sits in the center of her gold couch, facing an empty wall. “. . . it would take so long.”

Ruth stands in the threshold between the kitchen and living room, her hands clasped under her belly. The chill she caught outside has stayed with her and she realizes the house is cold, too cold, as if the windows are open and the heat has shut down. She scans the room for rustling curtains and wonders what she should say to Mary. What did they all say to her when Eve died? They touched her, probably because, like Ruth, they didn’t know what to say, and they brought chicken casseroles and apple cobbler. She should sit with Mary, touch her sleeve, pat her hand.

“We’re all so sorry.”

“Your baby is well?”

Ruth nods, pulling her coat closed and lowering her head.

“You should take care of yourself,” Mary says, tilting her head as if looking at something on the empty wall. “I took care.” Every few feet, at about eye level, nails stick out from the wall. “I took the best care I could. Waiting.” Mary nods toward the corner where her sewing machine sets on a bare card table. When they were young, and Ruth and Eve came for sewing lessons, fabric and piping and measuring tapes had covered the table, leaving barely enough room for the three of them to huddle around the machine. Now it is bare, and the table droops in the middle.

“I even made new curtains while I waited. But it took so long.”

Ruth steps closer, looking where Mary is looking.

“Can I do anything for you? Do you or Orville need anything? Anything at all?”

“I kept things nice, as nice as I could.”

“Things are lovely, Mary.” Ruth takes another step, watching the front door. She shouldn’t be in a hurry to leave. Were they in a hurry to leave her and Mother and Arthur? “But you shouldn’t work yourself like this. Where is Orville? Arthur is here. Outside. Do you need help with anything?”

“I did it myself, you know.” Mary doesn’t seem to see Ruth standing near the sofa, her coat wrapped tightly, hat and mittens still on. “All the cleaning. So much to take care of for one person.”

“Too much really. You should rest now.”

Mary tilts her head again, still staring at the empty wall. Ruth takes another step. They are hooks to hang pictures. She remembers. Family pictures. A whole wall of them. Even a picture of Mary, Eve and Ruth when they were girls. They are gone now. The wall is empty.

“He wrapped her in feed sacks, you know.”

Ruth turns on one heel to face Mary, stumbling and bracing herself against the bare wall.

“Before he buried her, I mean, so she was still beautiful when I got her back.” Mary brushes gray wisps of hair from her eyes and smoothes them in place. “She was too beautiful to bury. Still so beautiful. I took care the best I could.”

 

E
vie curls up next to Daddy, laying her head against him. His hands are crossed on the steering wheel and he is resting his head. His breathing is quiet, not deep and loud like when he’s sleeping. Evie scoots closer, snuggling up as best she can. His arm tightens around her shoulders. Still, Daddy doesn’t look up. She wants him to lift his head to smile at her, and then maybe he’ll notice. She could say something right out loud. She could pull on his shirt and point out the windshield so he would see, but Evie does nothing and Daddy doesn’t move, not even to squeeze any tighter. She remembers the picture—Uncle Ray happy and lifting Aunt Eve high off the ground. Aunt Eve laughing under her straw hat, smiling and not dead.

Without moving in her seat this time, Evie glances at Daddy, quickly so he won’t notice. Straight ahead, at the intersection of Main Street and Bent Road, sits a red truck. It is parked right in the middle where another car might crash into it. A white frosty cloud drifts up from the truck’s tailpipe. Uncle Ray pushes his hat high off his forehead and the red truck rolls slowly through the intersection and disappears.

 

“A
fter I took Mother’s quilt to Julianne, I didn’t go again.” Mary Robison lays back her head and closes her eyes. “What with the weather blowing in. I worried about how long I’d be gone. Things get dusty so quickly.”

Ruth swallows. The floor is uneven underfoot, and the front door seems to slip away. She coughs into a closed fist and walks across the room, sidestepping the coffee table.

“I’ll call Arthur in,” she says. “Maybe he can get the heat going.”

“Orville, he never went. Couldn’t bring himself to it.”

“Arthur,” Ruth says. “I’ll get Arthur. He’s right outside.”

Mary lifts her head. “I threw away those nasty feed sacks. Orville left her and only I took care.”

 

T
he front door opens slowly and Aunt Ruth slips outside. She stops at the top of the stairs, grabs onto her big stomach with both hands and hurries toward the car. Daddy doesn’t look up until he hears her footsteps on the sidewalk. Then he throws open the door and jumps out. Aunt Ruth meets Daddy at the front of the truck, grabbing his arms, leaning on him. Daddy turns toward the house and, holding Aunt Ruth by the arm, he walks her to the truck and helps her inside.

“You two sit tight,” Daddy says as Aunt Ruth crawls into the truck. “I’ll go see about Mary.”

Cold air sticks to Aunt Ruth and she smells like ice and snow.

“We’ll be fine,” she says, scooting closer to Evie, her knees bobbing up and down. “Just fine. Your daddy will be right back.”

Evie scoots away, toward the spot behind the steering wheel, while Aunt Ruth watches Daddy walk up the stairs and onto Mrs. Robison’s porch.

Hoping the red truck will drive past again, Evie says, “Did Aunt Eve die because her baby came out too early?”

“Where did you hear that, sweet pea?”

The sunlight bouncing off the white snow makes Evie squint. “I heard you all at Julianne’s funeral. Will yours come out too early?”

Evie used to worry that Aunt Ruth would have a baby who was blue like Ian’s baby sister and that they’d have to put her in the oven. Maybe the baby would wake up and cry. Maybe not. Maybe she’d die. Maybe Aunt Ruth will die, too.

“No, Evie,” Aunt Ruth says. Her knees stop bobbing and she crosses her mittens on her lap. “I hope not.”

Up on the Robisons’ front porch, Daddy knocks on the door and pushes it open. Straight ahead, at the end of the street, the red truck is there again, rolling across the intersection. And then it is gone.

Celia stands at her kitchen sink, her back to the conversation going on at the table, and dries the last dish from an early supper. Outside the window, as dusk falls, the light bouncing off the snow is gray. On the back porch, Jonathon is prying the wood from the window that Ray broke so he can lay in the new glass. Elaine is in her room, waiting for him to finish. Celia startles each time his hammer slams down. If only he would stop, for a moment at least, she could catch her breath. A piece of wood falls and clatters across the porch. Celia leans against the sink, and Arthur talks on, over the noise.

He called Floyd Bigler from Mary Robison’s living room, relit her heater, and while they waited for the sheriff, Mary told Arthur that she had visited the house to tidy up for Julianne who lay dead there since summer. Mary had shined the windows with vinegar-water and swept the corners. Before the weather turned, she laid a new white quilt over Julianne because the house carried a terrible chill. It didn’t seem right to bury the girl. That’s what Orville did at first. He wrapped her in feed sacks and buried her on Norbert Brewster’s land. But Julianne was too lovely, too tender, and when she was dead, first dead, still too beautiful to be buried. So Mary dug her up, carried her inside the old house, and tucked her in tight. When the sheriff arrived, she retold the same story.